


Stuffed

by vinyl_octopus



Series: Tumblr prompt fills [15]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Sickfic, Slash Goggles, soft toy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:34:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a prompt fill for anon who requested Martin sleeping with a stuffed airplane and Douglas finding out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuffed

He'd bought it in a moment of whimsy when they were stranded in Russia. When they thought they'd lost Gerti forever. When he was still recovering from not having killed them all.

St Petersburg airport may not have had many things - notably Toblerones - but it did have what was basically a stuffed version of Gerti. So he’d bought it. And then Douglas saved the day and they all flew home safely and he attached rather an unhealthy level of superstition and sentiment to the fluffy toy.

His last partner hadn't been much for hugging...or cuddling. Which was fine. And he was used to sleeping alone. But sometimes...when he was really lonely, or after a particularly bad day, he just needed an anchor. Something to hold. Something comforting.

When he'd been sideswiped on a van job not long after the goose incident, stopping millimetres away from a petrol tanker and milli _seconds_ away from an explosive death, he'd no one to tell. No one to squeeze him through the shakes and shock that visited him in the small hours when the trauma of both incidents combined to wake him with horrific nightmares. With his pillow damp from sweat and tears, he'd pulled the stuffed toy off the shelf and pressed it against his face. Muffled his breaths until they slowed and eased, and then whispered his fears and gratitude into the fluffy underbelly of the stupid, brightly coloured plane.

After a particularly rocky landing in Portugal – one that forever put paid to Douglas’s “hey, Chief” jokes – he'd shivered the night through in the tiny, twin-bedded room he was sharing with Douglas. Gnawed on his own knuckles to keep the shaken gasps at a minimum and wished he had something, _anything_ to hold onto.

So if he ended up bringing the toy in his bag every flight, that was neither here nor there: it fitted neatly under his washbag and folded clothes, hidden from prying eyes. He never _ever_ took it out of the bag while they were away; it was enough, so far, to know that it was there.

But at home, if he sometimes took it out of his waiting bag, or off the shelf where it “lived” to look at it and meditatively work through whatever trials the day had thrown at him, what of it?

And it didn't matter that he sometimes, _only sometimes_ , fell asleep while he was still cudd— _holding_ it. Because it wasn’t as if he was sharing either his room or his bed. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see.

 Until they did.

 

***

 

“All right, Captain, let’s get you home.” Douglas steered a woozy Martin, doped up on cold and flu meds and glazily feverish around the edges, out of the flight deck and down the steps.

Martin fumbled for his van keys, only for Douglas to pull them back out of his fingers, pulling Martin’s bag off his shoulder as he did so. “While I’m delighted that you’re not actually going to argue over staying to finish the paperwork, I think it would be safer for all of us if you _weren’t_ operating any heavy machinery. Including, or perhaps particularly, your clapped-out van.” Douglas swung Martin’s flight back onto his own shoulder, then used Martin’s keys to prod him towards the Lexus.

Martin stood dazed by the passenger door until Douglas had deposited their bags in the boot; Douglas opened the door for him but was saved from manhandling Martin into the seat by the fact that Martin pretty much fell into it.

“Right,” said Douglas, buckling himself in. “Home, a hot shower, soup, and bed for you.”

Martin’s only response was a hacking cough that rattled his ribcage. Douglas winced at the evident pain that caused.

By the time they pulled up at Martin’s house, he was half asleep, but his breathing was a little stilted. The street outside the house was full of cars and thumping music and laughter poured from the open front door.

“No,” Douglas said decisively, stopping Martin’s hand on the seatbelt. “That’s going to do you no good at all. Home with me, I think.” He executed a perfect three-point turn and headed back towards his own house. The fact that Martin didn’t even raise a squeak of complaint was all the reassurance he needed that he was doing the right thing.

 

“Living room, kitchen, master bath, my room.” Douglas pointed to each room in turn as he led Martin, swaying, down the short corridor. He stopped outside the lounge and opened the door on the right. “And this is you.” He preceded Martin into the plush guestroom, putting Martin’s bag on the chest at the foot of the bed.

Martin was just standing there, blinking; it looked like hard work, as if even his eyelashes ached. Douglas left him standing there for a moment while he fetched a pile of fluffy towels from the airing cupboard. Martin hadn’t moved. Looked a little like he might be drifting off. Douglas put the towels on the bed and reached to take Martin’s hat off, leaving it on the tallboy next to the door. Not a twitch. Douglas encouraged him to shrug off his jacket, draping it over the padded hanger that hung on the hook behind the door, then tugged at his tie until Martin slowly, methodically, undid it himself.

“Shower,” said Douglas, picking up the towels and leading Martin into the large bathroom next to the kitchen. He put the towels on top of the wicker hamper and directed Martin to the shower. “I’m sure you can figure the rest out on your own. I’ll be in the kitchen. If I don’t hear the water in five minutes, I’m coming in.”

Martin blinked slow acknowledgement and Douglas left, closing the door behind him and heading into the kitchen to unearth the ingredients for chicken soup. Four and a half minutes passed before he heard the gush of water start. He began chopping, half an eye on the clock, and half an ear out for worrying crashes.

 

The shower was heaven. Hot and steaming, it cleared Martin’s head enough that he could appreciate the lush, creamy soap Douglas favoured. Of course he’d washed that morning, but the dank shower stall in their cheap hotel room was nothing compared to this – the steam lacked the mouldering odour, for a start. And though it was only a few hours later, he felt prickly and clammy and, in short, this was exactly what he needed. He turned into the spray so it bounced off his neck and shoulders, ignoring the needling sting of water on sensitive skin in favour of enjoying the massaging pummel against cramping muscles. He inhaled a deep breath of sauna-like air, wincing a little at the ache in the depths of his lungs but luxuriating in the temporary ability to breathe without coughing.

A repeated banging alerted him to Douglas pounding on the door and demanding a response. Too croaky to call back, he let the sound of the water shutting off be his answer, then dried himself thoroughly with a blessedly thick, warm towel. His eyelids still felt crunchy as he gazed around the bathroom, head starting to clog again. He’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes in with him. But he had what he needed in his flight bag. He wound the spare towel around his waist and gathered his belongings in front of him as he stepped out into the hallway, arctic in comparison to the foggy bathroom.

“That way,” Douglas reminded him, pointing with a ladle to the other kitchen door from where he was standing over a bubbling pot on the stove.

Martin husked out his thanks and padded back to the guestroom he only vaguely registered having been in.

It was a soothing powder blue, the woodwork painted white, the bed and its extravagantly plush duvet buried under an inviting collection of pillows and cushions and blankets. Martin’s pyjamas were thoughtfully folded at the foot of the bed, along with a cosy-looking cardigan and thick wool socks he didn’t recognise. His washbag was on the chest of drawers next to his hat by the door, and his stuffed aeroplane was snuggled in the apex of the cushion pile at the head of the bed. His flight bag was neatly zipped and propped in the corner of the room.

Martin groped for his pyjamas and discarded the towel, staring at “Gerti” so brightly out of place in this proper, grown-up room. Neither the shiver of cold nor the nauseous curl in his stomach had anything much to do with the flu coursing through his body.

He paused as he got to the socks and cardigan. If he put them on, he supposed he’d have to go out and talk to Douglas, who would no doubt have an entire book of jokes to make about Martin’s snuggly toy. He could just stay in here. Go to sleep and deal with the mortification in the morning.

A knock on the door echoed behind him.

Or not.

Martin sagged as Douglas inched the door open and peered cautiously around, opening it fully when he saw Martin was fully dressed. He brandished a jumbo box of tissues and various packs of over-the-counter medication. “I come bearing gifts.” He brushed past Martin to put the collection on the bedside table, then went to the window to hold his hand over the radiator beneath.

“I’ve put the heating on, but it might take a while to kick in.” He gestured at the woollen garments still discarded at the foot of the bed. “You didn’t seem to have anything warm enough, so please, make yourself comfortable.”

Douglas finally looked at Martin’s face and evidently assumed he’d overstepped. “Oh. I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn’t have…I suppose it was rather rude to go through your things. I hope you don’t mind. You seemed a bit out of sorts; I thought it might be easier if you had everything to hand.” He didn’t glance at the stuffed toy once, but Martin felt his cheeks heat anyway.

Douglas seemed a bit cowed by his silence. “All right. Well. Look, help yourself to anything, _mi casa su casa_ and all that. And, uh, there’s soup in the kitchen…when you’re ready.” He departed with a sort of nervous head bob that was very unlike him. Martin wondered how awful _he_ must look for Douglas to be being so cautious around him…but he wasn’t curious enough to look in the mirror and find out.

He tugged on the socks and wrapped himself in the overlarge cardigan – he had to fold the sleeves back twice to keep his hands free – then grudgingly made his way out to the kitchen, armed with a dose of tablets and a handful of tissues.

A violent sneeze precipitated his arrival, so _sneaking_ into the kitchen was not an option. Douglas was ladling soup into two bowls. There was a fan heater blowing under the kitchen table, which had been laid with bright place mats and serviettes. Sun streamed in through the kitchen window.

It was quite a step up from what he’d been expecting to come home to, huddled miserably in his seat on Gerti. His own attic flat erred closer to dark and musty, aside from the skylight that occasionally allowed a single shard of daylight to pierce the gloom. It was generally draughty and certainly poky, and his own collection of ancient blankets and bedding and hot water bottles were all he had to ward off the chill in a room with limited power sockets and no central heating.

Douglas’s house was cosy without being dark; luxe, without being stark. It was welcoming.

It was a home.

Martin slid into one of the cushioned kitchen chairs and couldn’t help sighing in pleasure as the heat from the fan blew over his feet and ankles, warming and relaxing, though he had not been consciously cold. He let himself sink into it, languid and lightheaded from being so blocked up. It was difficult to care about anything.

A heavy hand on his shoulder warned him of the soup bowl being placed in front of him and he had to force himself not to lean into the comforting strength as his eyes drifted shut again. The hand disappeared and the sound of a glass plonking on the table shot his eyes open again.

Oh. Yes. Douglas. Embarrassment. Right.

An ice chip of worry slithered down his throat, even as he leaned forward to breathe in the hot soup steam. He couldn’t smell it, but the sensation was delicious.

Douglas was already blowing on his own first spoonful, though his concentration seemed to be entirely on Martin. “You look dreadful,” he said bluntly. “Get that down you and then off to bed. Snuggle down for a while and sleep it off.”

Martin picked up his lead-weighted spoon and parsed Douglas’s sentence for teasing. He couldn’t distinguish any, but that didn’t mean much. He was operating on half speed at the most. Either Douglas would be content to get it all out of his system while Martin was out of it, or he’d have to save up the commentary for when he was better.

Spooning up the soup was taking a vast deal more effort than navigating the shower had done, so he decided that, for the moment, he didn’t care.

He managed half the soup and a few mouthfuls of water and then Douglas made him take the night-time medication and had to help him back to his room.

He was vaguely aware of Douglas flitting about and moving cushions out of the way and somehow settling Martin into a perfectly comfortable nest of covers and pillows, but by then he was nearly asleep and barely noticed when something soft was pushed into his hands.

 

 ***

 

Martin woke gradually. He could literally feel his system coming back on-line. Lungs still sore, but functional. Head still aching but clearer than before. Muscles…sore from underuse, but no longer pained with fever. He blinked his eyes open and stretched luxuriantly. He might not be a hundred percent better, but he’d not slept so well in a long time.

There was a soft thud as something fell off the edge of the bed. Gerti. Judging by the warmth, he’d been sleeping with it. Again. He knew that thought was meant to be alarming for some reason, but he wasn’t awake enough to work out why.

“Ah! You’re up. How are you feeling?”

Oh. That was why. Suddenly wide awake, Martin shoved the incriminating plush toy under the covers, although its presence indicated it was far, far too late; if yesterday was anything to go by, Douglas would certainly have checked in on him – asleep with a cuddly toy like a 6-year-old girl. He looked up at Douglas, who had clearly tracked Martin’s reaction from where he stood in the doorway. “How are you feeling?” he said again.

“F-fine. Much better. Thank you.” His voice was a little more hoarse than it had been, but it was more of a _voice_ than it had been, too, so that was an improvement.

Douglas nodded. “I can make you breakfast, if you’re up to it,” he offered, then looked at his watch. “Or lunch, I suppose. You’ve been unconscious for nearly 24 hours. You must have been really done in.”

A whole day. Martin looked back at Douglas. No wonder he was being so delicate. He must actually have been genuinely worried. Martin’s stomach gave an audible growl before he could respond.

Douglas twitched a smirk as Martin slapped a hand over his belly. “I’ll take that as a yes. You’re welcome to another shower if you’d like. Or a bath. I’ve left some fresh towels and spare clothes in there for you.”

“Thank you,” Martin said again, discomforted by all this caring and vaguely embarrassed about being in Douglas’s house at all, never mind sleeping there.

“It’s my pleasure,” Douglas said, staring meaningfully into Martin’s eyes. He knocked his hand against the door in a rap of farewell and disappeared, footsteps echoing down the passage while Martin tried to unravel the subtext.

Still bemused, he manoeuvred himself stiffly out of bed and retrieved his wash bag, hobbling back down the hall to the bathroom.

He forewent the bath, too likely to send him off to sleep again, but the shower was just as extravagantly marvellous as he remembered. He tried testing how long Douglas’s hot water would last, but gave up after 15minutes, not least because he was a little more wobbly than he’d expected. And standing, even in such pleasurable circumstances, was too difficult.

He ended up sitting on the edge of the enormous spa bath to dry off; vision sparking as his blood pressure reorganised itself. He moved to the closed toilet to tug on borrowed pyjama pants and a single sock, until sheer exhaustion forced him to just lean back against the cistern and breathe.

“Martin?” Douglas was tapping at the door, but Martin couldn’t muster up more than a grunt in response, and the door creaked open.

“Are you all right?”

“’ll…be fffiine.” Martin drawled, eyes still shut, face pointed towards the ceiling, where all the _good_ oxygen was.

“Don’t be stupid. You’ll freeze.”

Martin felt the gush of cold air as Douglas opened the door all the way and marched in, plucking a towel off the rack and rubbing at Martin’s hair, which was, admittedly, dripping icily down his shoulders. With no input from him, his head lolled heavily forward, leaving Douglas to catch the weight of it in his be-towelled hands.

Douglas made a half-hearted “tsk” noise, as he blotted a little more delicately, then leaned behind himself for Martin’s stray sock. Martin tipped back to lean against the back of the loo again. Made no response as Douglas manhandled his foot into his lap so he could slide the sock over his toes. Ignored the affectionate stroke over his ankle when the sock was finally on.

“Here.” Douglas tilted Martin forward enough to pull an oversized T-shirt over his head. “You’re going to have to help a bit,” he pointed out, trying to thread Martin’s noodling arms through the sleeves.

“Ssssorry,” said Martin, earnestly trying to fold his elbow in the right direction and causing Douglas to rear back out of harm’s way.

Eventually Douglas had him dressed and upright. “Food and water. Ought to set you to rights. Will you be okay in the kitchen or would you rather…?”

“Kitchen’sss fiiine.”

Martin found himself poured into a seat, a plate of toast and eggs appearing magically before him. A blister pack of paracetamol sat next to a tall glass of water.

The first bite was enough to wake his appetite. By the time he’d finished eating, he’d regained most of his coherence and at least enough strength to stay seated at the table while Douglas made tea and washed up and refused to let Martin do anything.

Martin fiddled with his empty cup, mind now entirely back in working order. Any moment Douglas would make a quip and he’d have to come up with a reason a grown man needed to sleep with a stuffed toy that didn’t sound perverted or psychologically questionable.

A full teapot thumped down in the centre of the table and he looked up to see Douglas settling back in his seat. “What’s got you looking so worried, Captain?” Douglas shuffled the milk and sugar out of the way so he could take Martin’s cup and fill it.

“I…” Martin couldn’t stop himself looking towards the hallway where he could see the door to the guest room still open. “Nothing.”

He deflated as Douglas pushed the cup back towards him.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need, Martin. I’d rather know that you’re…I mean to say, I don’t want to be flying with you if you’re still sick.”

Martin frowned, even as he nodded thanks. That wasn’t what Douglas had started to say, he was sure. He stirred his tea meditatively. “I can go home tonight,” he promised.

“You can barely stand up.” Douglas pointed out. “We’ve got a couple of days till the next flight. You can stay here, at least until tomorrow night. Give you a chance to recover properly.”

Martin inhaled to complain.

“And before you tell me you’ve got a van job,” Douglas continued, “let me be the first to call you an idiot. There’s no way you’re driving anywhere or carrying anything in this state. So you might as well put that out of your mind right now.”

It was alarming how much Douglas could sound like Carolyn when he tried. Martin suspected it was something to do with being a parent, and tried not to consider whether that made him the child.

He slept with a stuffed toy. Of course he was the child.

He winced and drained his cup, then stood, only slightly shakily, to return to his room.

“Thank you, Douglas.”

“That’s at least the tenth time you’ve thanked me, said Douglas, looking slightly hurt, or possibly irritated, as he too stood in order to clear the table. “Stop thanking me and just look after yourself.” He waved an empty cup at the doorway. “I’d recommend going back to bed, but if you’ve had enough sleep and you’re bored, you’re welcome to rug up in front of the TV. I lit the fire earlier, so with the central heating it ought to be pretty toasty.”

Martin nodded, resisting the urge to thank Douglas again.

He collected his wash bag and cast-offs from the bathroom then took them back to his room. Sitting in front of the fire sounded positively blissful. He dropped his clothes on his flight bag and put the wash bag back on the chest of drawers, then turned to pull one of the blankets out of the heap he’d left on the bed.

Douglas had clearly been in while he was in the shower. The sheets were fresh and the bed made up to perfection. He bit his lip as he picked up Gerti from where it sat jauntily on top of the pile of carefully arranged cushions. Turned the toy around in his hands as a low thrum of embarrassment burned through the eggs in his stomach.

Douglas stepped in with a handful of books while he was still standing there. Martin felt his entire bloodstream relocate to his face, just as Douglas moved to hand the books over. “I thought you might… What’s wrong?”

Martin shook his head, throwing the stuffed plane onto the bed. “Nothing.”

Douglas watched the toy’s trajectory and Martin flushed harder.

“When Helena left,” Douglas began, not looking Martin in the eyes, “I used to fall asleep holding her pillow.” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t quite got out of that habit yet, and it’s been over a year.”

Martin stared over Douglas’s shoulder to the clock on the wall in the hallway outside. “I…it’s not really the same though, is it?” Even to his own ears, his flu-clogged voice was low. He flicked a glance to Douglas, not quite making eye contact.

Douglas shrugged. “I don’t know. It stopped being about Helena’s actual _memory_ for me a long time ago.” He picked at the damaged spine on one of the books he was still holding. “Sometimes it’s just nice to…have something to hold.” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway.” He put the books next to Martin’s hat on the tallboy and finally met his eyes. “I was going to settle in with a film in the lounge by the fire this afternoon. If you’d like to join me, you’re more than welcome.”

Martin nodded as Douglas turned to leave.

“Thank you, Douglas,” he said.

“No problem, Martin.”

 


End file.
